


Sonnet I

by ijemanja



Category: Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijemanja/pseuds/ijemanja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A miracle! Here's our own hands against our hearts.</i>
</p><p>Beatrice writes poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonnet I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cuits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuits/gifts).



> This is set during and after the final act of the play. Many thanks to Innie for the beta.
> 
> I hope this is something you enjoy, Cuits, happy yuletide!

**Scene I. A room in Leonato's house.**

_Shame leans not upon his back –_

Here in this room, Hero with solemn steps measures the length of it. Beatrice marks the steady footfalls passing slowly to and fro as she sits in the window, her head bent and pen scratching over well-worn parchment.

_Upon his back –_

_Back? Back, rack, sack, hack._

"What write you there, coz?" says Hero.

She is more curious in death than many who yet live. Beatrice turns the page away from her cousin's seeking eyes, yet she would not wish her cousin to embrace her end too closely, lest she grow too silent, and so gives her an answer:

"Dark words. My fingers tell their colour." Beatrice waggles fingers five, smudged with ink, aloft in proof. "In truth, 'tis an elegy. Marry, a song fit for Aurora, she that ushers in the mourning." 

"I would not have you sick at heart, dear coz."

"The heart of Beatrice sickens not, yet lament I must, for so great a loss have I suffered – nay, twice over. So oft does trouble arrive in pairs, we must needs keep both eyes open and set the sentries double marching, fore and aft. Mine own cousin hath died, know you not?"

"I know it well."

"Thou dost look pale with knowing. And know you this, too – my own dear heart, it hath died and gone. It passed this way once, I bid it tarry anon but hearts are creatures none for keeping. I will not see it again, i'faith."

"Would you not have it back?"

"An would thee? Nay, nay, I would not have it returned, such a thing I should not know on a second meeting. I miss it not, I sicken not, yet in fearful grief I turn my pen, and this page must wear the cost."

That late, fair Hero grants a smile with pale lips that tremble not. "Write on," she says. "The page must speak, and speak loud that which lips and tongue in true sensibility must render dumb. For we that have not the will or way to shout: write on."

 

**Scene II. Leonato's orchard.**

_Feasts itself upon... what, table? Nay, fie on it, the image is too obscure and naught rhymes with table, but 'sable'. Far too rich a rhyme for this poorly verse._

"Lady Beatrice, well met."

She finds her uncle's orchard in good company, till her friend Solitude departs.

She then finds a curtsy in her for the prince, and little else.

"You have sat here long awhile; I saw you from the road ere I came. What is it you are writing, lady?"

"The only words of any matter, and sure my words are long."

"In name or nature?"

"In both, Prince, for 'tis an Heroic epic, composed in memoriam. And speak we now to the matter: stand you here much longer, sir? Your shadow grows ever shorter."

"I would have thee still to call friend, dear lady – nay, do not bow."

"But I would go, sir, and I would take my leave if you would give it or not."

 

**Scene III. A hall in Leonato's house.**

_This truth proves not in jest what he wilt learn: Where now to battle –_

_Where now to battle –_

"Beatrice! What do you here?"

"Hold, uncle!"

_Where now to battle –_

"Is't not full late to tarry here at such a time, on such a day?"

"And in such a place? Better, uncle, than that other; there it be all over weeping."

"Weeping? Who weeps? Today we are done with tears; wherefore look you not saddened, writing here in secret when your cousin prepares to wed?"

"On my honour, I was there and saw it myself. She sighs till she weeps, then smiles and sups wine and then, marry, she laughs herself to fresh tears, and will have none to console her, for she is none to be consoled: she is the happier in rebirth. And so I say to her, cousin, I say: art thou not full young to be wed, but a day living in the world? And so she bid me go from her sight that she might fall to weeping once more. Thus am I here, and well-pleased; it is quieter than a henhouse, and I might wear fewer feathers."

"Beatrice, hear me now: remember you that day I brought you to this house?"

"Yea, uncle."

"'Twas that day, many a year since, that saw your dear father buried."

"I could not forget it soon."

"'Tis a sorry day,' I said to you then. And what reply didst that young Beatrice make to mine ear? But 'nay, Uncle, for it is a good enough day to be alive, and would my mother and father know it a little better, so too would I.' Fie, and you laugh still?"

"For it is yet a good day, is it not?"

"You will laugh yourself to your own grave, I'll warrant. And so is it a jest, then, you write there upon your hand? Tell it me, pray; the hours drag their hooves and kick up such dust as will choke us all afore we arrive at church this morn."

"Nay, Uncle, late is the hour ere I turn jolly. Here is a battle hymn, for to accompany a march to war."

"Bend your will to treason now? Messina is a goodly town, child, never a battlefield. We will meet the prince at the churchyard in peace."

"I do not go to war with Don Pedro."

"And the Count, he will be my son, and your cousin. Hence we will see my daughter smile again, and love you well your cousin. Marry, all will be well that ends happily, so: make no war this day, I charge thee."

"Nay again, 'tis not Don Pedro, nor Claudio, nor you my uncle, nor any other man that will meet my challenge in arms."

"How go you to war, my child?"

"With my own self, aye, and no other. Some skirmish we shall see – she is but half my rival where twice the woman wields her blade, and fight we to the death, a merry end for that from two victories, one victor shall be made, and then unmade. And then strike me my banner there upon the hill, or else a pair of pikes to prop our heads."

"I never had to wish thee joy – a less joyful niece I never had. I pray thee find her again, well met and unblooded, for thine own sake."

"Anon, good Uncle, I will, yet I spill enough blood. Fear not but my heart can bear it; the day is good enough that sees it pierced and still, you see, beat verily on."

"Come then, my good lady knight, and don your other disguise, for we must to the church."

"Lead on, uncle."

_Where now to battle –_

 

**Scene IV. Another room in another house.**

"What is it, Sir Benedick, that you keep here so secretly?"

Beatrice's hand has stolen into his pocket, to find there that which she knew well to find. She pulls forth a paper, old and creased with familiar use.

"Know you not?" says Benedick. "'Tis a sonnet, made with little skill and much belaboured rhyme, and yet the sweetest lines that ever met either on ear or page."

In thoughtful repose, she leans her head this way and that, and smooths the paper on her knee. "Sweet as may be, and could never come from such a hand as mine. Who gave it you, then?"

"In truth, a maiden wondrous fair. I knew her once, but long ago."

"Did she die for love?"

"Aye, at mine own hand; forsooth a wicked deed and in sore amends I make my bed a-morning and a-night all these years since."

"Poor maid. Had I such a one before me now, to her I should say: beware men with beards."

"Thou art un-generous, and I say now, un-loved."

"The better I go un-bearded."

"And so I will go, and not let you read the poor maid's lament."

His hand is quick to snatch but hers, a proper cousin to her tongue, the quicker, and she does not lose her purloined prize. Not till he seeks it with a kiss, and then the soft, traitorous sister of her heart will give him anything.

Presently, Beatrice lays her head upon her husband's shoulder. "Ah, well. You must needs keep it close by, then; I would have you know her heart if I know none."

"Well kept it will be, and if I know not, why then here 'tis in my pocket to remind me. Art thou well satisfied?"

"Aye, husband, enough to sleep on."

"Here, and I should read it again. As 'twill improve on each recitation, so does my love for thee."

"Go on. The words will not wear out, not till the sun wears out the heavens."

Benedick clears his throat and reads: 

  
_My lord B of passing adequate height,_  
 _While mirror’s shame leans not upon his back–_  
 _In whiskers’ count his chin all numbers right;_  
 _His face for features' wanting knows no lack._

_That tongue tastes well which eyes like not to see,_  
 _And feasts itself upon a poor table_  
 _Which bends to measure truth’s weight too heavy–_  
 _That wit belike some oft misheard fable._

_But war must come and fight him well in earn’st;_  
 _Heart’s blood to spill the once and never more._  
 _This truth proves not in jest what he wilt learn’st:_  
 _Where now to battle, arms will number four._

_All mine heart’s blame is full upon him laid,_  
 _To take what ne’er decried this unfair maid._


End file.
